If it wasn't for us cats, the English language would be missing quite a few phrases. That's got to tell you something about the popularity of us moggies.

There's 'raining cats and dogs', which I've never understood: you don't step in poodles when it's wet. There's 'you're like the cat who ate the cream', which is equally baffling: cats who eat cream look the same as cats who don't - they've just got milk on their whiskers.

Great day! The white stuff has almost gone...I can see my toilet again.

White cats are hard to spot in the snow, leading to unfortunate accidents

My paws are bloody frozen...

This morning one of the humans - the male named Mike - sprinkled the drive with cat litter. Someone told him it worked just as well as grit.

Some of it probably does, but not the stuff we use - wood shavings.

Mind you, it has made a difference. Until today, ice had turned the drive into a skidpan. Now visitors are sliding on tree mulch.

Weather has been so bad, us cats had to cancel our Thursday night gathering by the garden shed. Instead, I spent the entire night in the airing cupboard.

I was rudely woken at 2am by Kightly who wanted to clamber inside, too.

I told the pampered puss straight: "This towel ain't big enough for the both of us."

The humans blame all this white stuff on a cold front. They want to try going to the toilet outside: it's the back end that gets the worst of it.

I feel sorry for the pure white cat on the corner. Twice I went outside to answer the call of nature, twice I almost sat on him.

"That's the worst thing," I told the shocked moggie in an attempt to break the ice, "snow balls!"

"Wouldn't know," he muttered. "I've had the operation."

In all my nine lives, I've never seen so much snow.

Kightly, not yet a year old, has never seen the stuff before. She thought the birds had eaten something they shouldn't have.

She was excited at first, jumping into the stuff, then realised it's hard to look graceful with four pounds of snow stuck to your fur.

The demented cat spent ten minutes trying to suck-up to a snowman in the front garden by rubbing against him.

"Bet he didn't give you any food," I teased her.

"Worse than that," hissed Kightly, "I'm pretty sure the swine wet on me."

Merry Christmas, Keogh fans!

Tis the season to be jolly, whatever 'tis' means. Mind you, none of the moggies on my block are jolly - the big freeze has seen to that.

Even next door's pond has frozen over, which makes nicking a koi carp a smash and grab exercise.

When it gets this cold, the humans put food out for the birds, which is really unfair - they don't put food out for the cats.

Maybe they do. Maybe it's the birds.

1, Cats do mate for life: not with the same cat, admittedly, but they certainly mate until it's time to meet their maker. My mum was popping-out kittens until the day she died, although, admittedly, she died under the wheels of a schoolbus.

2, Cats do believe in the here-after, or, as we call it, the 'here-kitty-kitty-kitty after'. Cat-heaven is dog free and full of flightless birds. A place where moggies grow fat on meals on wheels, which are mice on roller-skates.

3, Cats do get Christmassy. Our Christmas story is pretty much the same as yours, except the Three Wise Cats brough gold, frankincense and purr.

What do you give a cat who's got everything - that's the dilemma? A lot of worming tablets and make sure they don't rub against children.

I used to believe in turkeys, but I don't now. If flightless birds that big exist why haven't I seen them dead on the road?

They're not British, says my mate Ginger. Tell that to Bernard Matthews: he reckons he's got a shed full of them in Norfolk.

You wouldn't rear them to shoot at. Turkeys falling from the sky would be like the blitz.
I think they're two chickens stuck together. "So why haven't they got four legs?" asked Ginger.

Easy. No one would be able to catch them if they did.
Either that, or they've been created in a lab for Christmas. If scientists could do that, they'd also produce satsumas as big as footballs and Brazil nuts the size of a human foot, surely?
The two things I hate about Christmas are Santa Claus - I suffer from claustrophobia - and the weather.
In Australia, it's boiling hot at Christmas and cats spend the day catching rays on the beach.
They're the real Sandy Claws.

Not many people know this, but the Siamese invented a martial art for cats.

It's a bit like a street fighting version of Wado-Ryu - a sort of Wado-Riyulookingat.

It's called mea-owwthathurt and for the first time a grand master has risked death to spill the secrets of this deadly art in a 12-part correspondence course.

Part one comes with a cat collar and bell that doubles as a knuckle (sorry, paw) duster.

I know this because the offer says: "Must not be used as a pawduster".

Okay, so the cutesy Christmas cat photo didn't fool you.

This is the way I wanted you to see me at this time of year.

But you'll have to click to the next page to see the REAL me, in all my glory!

Remember - a cat isn't just for Christmas. Treat it well and it'll be clawing your curtains well into July.

Remember - cute kittens don't stay cute kittens. I was cute once, then one day they picked me up and I sunk my teeth into their arm.

You can't bite and be cute. From then on, I wasn't cute.

They've done it again. Gone and left me.

At least this time I don't have to put up with a professional catsitter called Carl, who rolled on the carpet to 'bond' with me.

When it comes to helping others, I've got something in the pipeline. It's a dead rat. I wedged it in there yesterday.

I've got something else as well. A Christmas charity single, with money raised used to buy catnip for the growing army of strays. Because of the credit crunch, more and more pet owners are showing cats the door. We usually think: "Very interesting - now could you open it, I'm dying for the toilet."